


but that's why the dark is there

by spock



Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Age Difference, Creepy, M/M, Possession, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2374769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Micheletto found himself drawn to the boy as well; he hadn't been able to pin down why that was, wouldn't be able to, even if there had been a knife to his throat, even if he was the type of man who saw death as anything resembling a threat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but that's why the dark is there

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/gifts).



After, Micheletto journeyed to Spain, half-formed plans flitting through his mind. He held no doubt that he'd fall into anything other than his former profession, but he hoped that being under a new master's charge would give his life purpose again. Of all the things he'd pretended to be, to feel, in his life, the one that he'd always clung to as truth was that he was, if nothing else, a survivor. With all that had happened, _how_ it'd happened, Micheletto had found himself less wanting of that truth.

He worked as a hired hand, aiding a man and his sons on their farm, just along the outskirts of Barçalona. He had meant to venture into the city during the nights, wanted to eavesdrop on town gossip, test the waters, see which rising official or vengeful lord might have need for his services, but he never did get around to setting about that task.

One of the sons — a boy; no older than fifteen, though Micheletto hadn't cared enough to inquire for specifics — had taken a liking to him, and Micheletto found himself drawn to the boy as well. He hadn't been able to pin down why that was, wouldn't be able to, even if there had been a knife to his throat, even if he had been the type of man who saw death as anything resembling a threat.

On the fifth night of Micheletto's employ, the boy finally struck up some nerve and crept into the barn where Micheletto slept. Micheletto kept quiet, watched on with amusement as the boy slipped into his bed. He was bold despite his inexperience, had neither qualms nor hesitance as he moved into Micheletto's space, kissed and nipped at Micheletto's neck, slid his hands along Micheletto's back and fingered the scars that lived there.

Micheletto felt nothing but the barest, most base hints of arousal, an ember too small to ever ignite a blaze on its own; his lack of desire would only disappoint them both in the end. He endured it, let the boy do as he pleased, and left it at that.

Eventually the boy detached himself from Micheletto's neck, panted into the hollow of his throat. Micheletto listened to him breathe and asked, "What ever could be going through your mind, to cause this madness, young Francisco?"

"It's _Isco_ , Micheletto," the boy laughed, curled his fingers into Micheletto's chest. Something shifted in the silence between them, filled up the air, had Micheletto's hackles rising. The grip he had on the boy's hair tightened, and the boy laughed. Micheletto had been well versed in the ways men reacted to pain; laughter, common, but never like this, never deep bellied and dark, twisted and muffled, a mouthful of fresh, overturned earth spilling from his lips. 

"It's that same madness, Micheletto," the boy said, finally answering him. He pulled back, raised his head, let Micheletto look at his face and see that his eyes had gone an inky black, dark pools that reflected no light within them, that swallowed up all that they looked upon instead, so matte that they could've been stone, except nothing natural in the world possessed a color so dark. 

"What are you?" Micheletto demanded, struggled to get away, but the boy dug his fingers into Micheletto's back, clawed at the muscle and skin so that Micheletto was held fast, couldn't move. The boy smiled, then gentled his hands, smoothed them over Micheletto's back, as if he were settling a horse. Micheletto kept still, waited to see what it was this demon would do to him, half hoping that his latest breath would be his last. 

Slowly, the boy began to draw lines on Micheletto's back: a long upstroke that had his fingernail grazing against Micheletto's skin, topped by a half-circle; a full circle with a line next to it; a curve with two bends; another half-circle, pointing away from the other symbols he'd drawn; that damned circle with the line along side it again; and finally, a straight line that the boy traced all the way down, until the boy's hand was toying with the hem of Micheletto's underclothes. "What does it mean?" Micheletto whispered, though he already knew the answer, could feel it in his bones. 

"You still haven't found the time to learn?" his boy teased. 

"No," Micheletto answered. "How?" he asked, before deciding he didn't care. It _was_ now, and Micheletto was an expert in dealing with absolutes he hadn't agreed to, in what was, and what was not. "Why him?" he asked instead.

His boy smiled, rolled over so that he was on his back. His golden hair half-covered his eyes, and the moonlight that slipped in through the gaps of the roof brought out the red hue that lurked just below the top layer, bleached by the sun as it'd been, and made the red-brown freckles that dotted the bridge of his nose and cheeks take stark relief against the paleness of his skin. "It was less lonely, this way. Does it bother you?" his boy asked.

"No," Micheletto admitted. He wondered if it made him vain. This boy could be his near double, a Micheletto that was youthful, beautiful; what Micheletto could've been had he been spared the ugliness of being Micheletto himself. "Is he still there? The boy?"

"Sometimes," his boy hedged. "Does that bother you?"

 _It should_ , Micheletto thought.

**Author's Note:**

> technically, this is a trick. semantically, it's a treat. wholistically, i'm the worst? happy halloween!


End file.
